"Whisky?" asked the other, springing eagerly forward.
"No," answered the man, contemptuously, after smelling the bottle.
"Water, eh?" queried the other, with disgust.
"Wine! And look here. Do you know what that means? It means a white man! Yes, it does. No Injin ever left a cork in a bottle. Now, you look sharp. There will be a white man to tackle."
"Wal, I guess he won't be much of a white man, or he'd have whisky."
"Shoo! I heard a bird fly down the canyon. Somebody's a comin' up thar."
"We better git, eh?" said the other, getting his gun; "lay for 'em."
"Lay low and watch our chance. Maybe we'll come in on 'em friendly like, if there's white men. We're cattle men, you know; men hunting cattle," says the other, getting his gun and leading off behind the crags in the rear. "Leave me to do the talking. I'll tell a thing, and you'll swear to it. Wait, let's see," and he approaches the edge of the rocks, and, leaning over, looked below.
"See 'em?"
"Shoo! Look down there. The gal! She's a fawn. She's as pretty as a tiger-lily. Ah, my beauty!"